


Three Times Tony Stark Used Italian Nicknames and One Time He Received One

by MCUsic_to_my_ears



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Fluff, Harley Keener is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Italian Tony Stark, Light Angst, Peter Parker is Tony Stark's Biological Child, Single Parents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-22
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:07:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21897916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MCUsic_to_my_ears/pseuds/MCUsic_to_my_ears
Summary: Tony can't help but slip into his Italian when with his children.
Relationships: Harley Keener & Tony Stark, Morgan Stark (Marvel Cinematic Universe) & Tony Stark, Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 19
Kudos: 390
Collections: Iron Dad Secret Santa 2019, Love me some Italian Tony





	Three Times Tony Stark Used Italian Nicknames and One Time He Received One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Cami_the_Marvel_geek](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cami_the_Marvel_geek/gifts).



> A weird combination of all your prompts in a way, I hope you like it, this was super fun to write!
> 
> @camillastrangestark97, here you are!

The pan hissed when Harley drops chunks of butter onto its hot surface. He smirked, easing his first slice of bread onto the pan. He added a slice of colby jack cheese and then pepper jack before sticking the other slice of bread on top. The teen checked the temperature of the pan before leaning back against the counter. 

“What’s going on in here?” his dad called out as he entered the kitchen. He breathed in the familiar scent. “My famous grilled cheese I see.”

“You mean you smell?” Harley challenged. He hid his smile by using his spatula to prop up his sandwich, pretending to ensure it wasn’t burning yet.

The father chuckled and began sealing the blocks of cheese into ziplock baggies, causing Harley to look up. 

“Don’t you want one?”

The engineer raised an eyebrow. “What did you do?” He set the cheese aside. 

Harley clasped his hand to his chest.  _ “Moi? _ I would never!”

“You’re right. What did you and Peter do?”

“First off, if anything happened, Peter would have told you immediately and vacuumed the living room or something.” Harley checked his sandwich quickly and then expertly flipped it. “Second off, I didn’t do anything. I just want to make my dad a killer grilled cheese, is that so bad?”

The father studied his son for a moment. “Alright,  _ polpetto. _ Impress me.”

Harley rolled his eyes at the nickname, having Google translated it years ago. “You know, I run cross country now. I am not a  _ polpetto _ anymore.”

“You’re right,” the dad smiled. “You’re  _ mio polpetto.” _

“This-” Harley brandished the spatula. “-is why I never tell you about parent-teacher conferences.”

“I still go, you know.”

“You’re rude like that,” Harley pouted, rinsing his knife in the sink before cutting two new slices of cheese, one from each type. 

The dad snorted. “Point.” He reached over to untie the bread, but Harley swatted him away. “Seriously, what’s up? Are you trying to schmooze me? I feel very schmoozed already, don’t worry.”

Harley almost dropped his cheese as he transferred it over to the other counter. “No. I don’t know. I just wanted to do something nice, I guess.” He shrugged, blushing slightly. “A little ‘you’re my dad and I love you’ thing. I don’t know.” He dropped some more butter into the pan, swapping his sandwich for his dad’s. He kept his back firmly facing his dad. 

The engineer sobered up slightly. “Hey,” he started. He moved next to his son’s side.  _ “Polpetto,  _ I love you so much. You don’t ever have to do anything to make me love you or make me believe that you love me. I know that. I knew that the day I brought you home from the hospital.” He turned his son so that they were facing each other. “I appreciate it when you do things like this for me, I just want you to know that you don’t have to.”

“But I want to,” Harley protested, looking down. As Tony knew, the teen had always had trouble expressing himself, especially after his mom passed. 

“That’s okay,  _ polpetto. _ I just don’t want you to be something you’re not.”

“Thanks, dad.” Harley glanced up briefly before turning away to flip the grilled cheese. 

The father smiled. “Of course, Harley. And thank you for making me lunch.”

Harley’s eyes flicked to his watch. “It’s three in the afternoon!”

“I was in a meeting,” he shrugged. 

Harley shook his head, cutting another two slices of cheese. “Just for that, you’re getting another sandwich.”

“That’s not a punishment,” the father pointed out. 

“Too bad!” 

***

Peter rubbed his eye with his left hand, suppressing a yawn. He blinked blearily, focusing back on his glowing computer screen. Frowning, he turned down the brightness, then toggled his mouse pad so that he was clicked back onto his next problem. He was already twenty verb conjugations deep and had fifteen to go. The next word was  _ to be.  _

_ “Essere,”  _ Peter muttered to himself, sinking into his bed as he leaned forward on his elbows in thought.  _ “Essere. Esso? Essero?”  _ he wondered aloud, typing in each new answer before erasing it when it didn’t look right. 

There was a chuckle from the door frame. 

Peter’s head snapped up to see his dad watching him struggle through his homework. “Not funny,” he pouted, pushing his laptop aside. He glanced at the alarm clock on his bedside table, balking when he saw that it was already past eleven.

His dad smiled. _“Non era il mio obiettivo,_ Pete,” he teased lightly, dragging Peter’s desk chair towards the bed and settling in. 

Peter groaned. “Stop cheating with your bilingual childhood. I’m only in Italian one.” 

“And Italian one is already keeping you up this late?”

“And multi variable. And biochem,” Peter disputed. He swung his legs over the edge of his bed. He paused. “I’m not helping my case, am I?”

_ “Non lo sei,”  _ his dad responded easily, turning the laptop so that he could read it. 

Peter grinned. “Hey, I know that one!” he exclaimed. “‘You’re not’.”

The edges of the engineer’s eye’s crinkled. “Verb conjugation got you down, huh?” he pressed on. 

“Yeah.  _ È difficile.  _ Oh, wait!” he made grabby hands at the laptop, which his father gladly handed over. He quickly typed  _ è _ into the line for  _ it is.  _ He frowned, tapping his fingers on the edge of his keyboard. “Okay. I am…  _ Io… es- _ No!  _ Io sono!” _ He grinned typing it in. Once he figured out the first irregular, the rest trickled back into his head and he quickly finished the problem. 

“When’s this due, Pete?” his dad asked as he watched his son mouth the word  _ rimanere.  _

Peter yawned, filling out the chart distractedly. “Um, midnight? Eleven fifty nine, technically.”

“And your over halfway done?” 

The boy nodded, before shaking his hair back out of his eyes. 

“Let me help you then.”

Peter began on the next set. “I’m almost done,” he whined. He scrunched up his nose when the program informed him that one of his answers was wrong. 

His dad sighed, running a hand over his mouth. Working full time and being a single dad could be exhausting at times. Especially when his children refused to go to sleep on time. “Yeah, but you have a band practice before class tomorrow, and I don’t want you to get trampled by the trumpets because you konked up mid-piece.” 

Peter frowned slightly, not looking up from his screen. “I know how to do it though,” he protested. “I’m just not thinking super great right now.”

“So let me help you finish it up, so that you can be thinking great in the morning.”

The teenager sighed. “Fine. But only because I don’t want to get mauled by a French horn.”

The father smiled wanly and walked Peter through the next few conjugations. They had it turned in within ten minutes. Tony ruffled his son’s hair affectionately before sliding the laptop away and plugging it in on the desk. He flicked off the light on his way back. Peter slipped into shorts, not bothering to change shirts, and dove under his covers. 

Tony placed a kiss on the boy’s forehead.  _ “Buona notte e sogni d'oro, cucciolo,”  _ he murmured pleasantly. 

“I know what that means now and I don’t like it,” Peter mumbled, drawing his blue comforter further over himself. 

_ “Ovviamente. Ti amo.” _

_ “Ti amo,”  _ Peter breathed, sinking into sleep. 

***

Morgan stretched up, fingers brushing the roof of the car. “See, I’m tall now. I don’t need a booster seat,” she pouted. 

Her father laughed, shaking his head. “Hate to break it to you, Morgan, but the booster seat is the thing making you tall.”

“Nuh uh,” she protested, slouching back in her seat. 

The dad smiled at her from the driver’s seat, before turning his attention to reversing out of his parking garage spot. He had lived in the city for nearly twenty years, but still had trouble knowing which way to back out at times. 

“What do you want to listen to?” he asked once they pulled into New York traffic. It was fairly early in the morning, so the start-stop traffic wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

Morgan gazed out the window at the city she’d grown up in. The teachers at her elementary school had meetings all day, while her older brother’s high school still had a half day. Her dad had decided to take the day off rather than hiring a babysitter and to bring her to his now empty family home upstate. 

The whole family usually only went once or twice during summer vacation, but the fall air was cool and clean once they got out of the city limits. 

“Dad!” Morgan began. 

Her father turned down their  _ Queen _ playlist, Morgan’s favorite, and glanced at her through the rearview mirror. “Yeah?”

“Why are we going to Grandma and Grandpa’s house?”

The father grimaced at the reference to his parents, but continued smiling. “Well if I told you, then it wouldn’t be a surprise, now would it?”

Morgan huffed, crossing her arms. Her dad grinned at her, before turning the music back up. Soon, they were both singing along to  _ Love of My Life _ and  _ Bicycle Race.  _ Another dozen songs or so and the father was parking the car in his childhood driveway. 

Morgan yanked off her seat belt and raced up the steps. The engineer took his time pulling out his key and unlocking the door. He took a final breath and plastered on a smile. 

He stopped in the doorway, motioning to a fairly large package sitting on the front porch. “Help me carry this inside?” he asked. 

Morgan giggled, but nodded. “Are you getting weak in your old age?” she asked innocently. 

The father chuckled. “Did Pete teach you that one?” They settled the box in the entryway. Morgan flicked on the lights, knowing the switch’s location despite only visiting the family home a few times a year. 

“Go grab a pair of scissors out of the kitchen for me will you?” 

Morgan nodded, curiosity piqued, and raced away. The father chuckled and set off in the opposite direction, fetching his tool box from the trunk of the car. Morgan was waiting when he returned, rocking on her heels in excitement. She held the scissors close to her purple shirt. 

“Go on, open it up,” the father encouraged. 

Morgan skillfully opened the box and quickly tossed aside the packing supplies. “A bike!” she cheered. 

“Why not? Pete and Harley both learned here. Lot earlier than you are.” The dad cleared his throat, kneeling down. Morgan set down the scissors. “I dropped a lot of balls when Mom died, like not teaching you to ride your bike, not making dinner. Things like that are really important, and they will be happening a lot more,  _ fiorette.” _ He smiled wearily. “Starting now!” He slapped his leg for emphasis and began pulling pieces out of the box. Over the next half hour, they assembled the blue bike and added on the training wheels as a finishing touch. They took the bike out in the driveway and Morgan hopped right on. Her dad balanced her wobbling frame. 

“Just pushed one foot down,” he coached, a grin spreading across his face as she propelled forward. He followed behind happily until she was steady, biking around the driveway freely. 

“Daddy, look!” she squealed, circling around. 

The father leaned back against the house’s exterior. “You look beautiful,  _ fiorette!”  _ he called back. “You’re doing perfect.” 

***

“Shh,” Morgan giggled, covering Peter’s mouth with her hand. He re-adjusted his grip on her piggyback ride. Harley rolled his eyes at the pair, swinging the bedroom door open while balancing his tray in the other hand. 

Their dad groggily pushed aside his comforter, blinking at the light. "Harley?" he asked, yawning. 

The older boy smiled, hefting up his tray. 

"Happy Father's Day," the trio chorused, all grinning. 

Morgan moved to be let down, which Peter easily allowed, so that she could capture her father in a warm embrace. He sat up in bed just in time to catch her and hold her close to her chest. The brothers followed suit, joining in on the hug, with Harley setting the breakfast aside first. 

"Oh my, thank you,  _ prole."  _ Peter smiled at the affectionate name his dad gave them. "You didn't have to wake me up early to celebrate though," the father joked as the family pulled apart. 

"We didn't," Harley replied smugly. 

Their father frowned, rolling his next words around in his mouth. "You… didn't?" 

The oldest son shook his head. "I turned off all your alarms while you were snoring away last night. It's ten thirty." 

The dad huffed in surprise. "Well, thank you. That's actually… wow." He shook his head. 

Morgan piped up, "We also made breakfast!" She motioned to the tray piled high with pancakes, eggs and sausage, compete with a glass of orange juice and sticky bottle of syrup, in case he needed more. 

"I guess that home ec class really paid off this semester, huh, Harles?" the engineer asked as Harley passed over the tray. Morgan leaned against her dad's side once he got settled while Peter and Harley stayed at the foot of the bed. 

The older boy rolled his eyes. Peter nudged him sarcastically. "Yeah, something you probably use,  _ babbo,"  _ he retorted easily. 

The father slapped a hand over his heart. "The upfrontery!" he lamented. "Mocked in my own home, on my own day, about my own food." Morgan giggled, unsurprised by his dramatics. 

"Sorry,  _ babbo, _ but I don't think that food wants to be claimed by you after it's brought to life," Harley teased back, poking his toes at his father's. 

Morgan squirmed closer to her dad. "I like you food,  _ babbo,"  _ she mumbled sleepily.

The father pointed his fork at his sons, swallowed his last bite of pancake, and instructed, "Do not rub off on her." He jerked his head towards Morgan, who clung to his side. "She's the only one left on my side in this house." 

"But  _ Babbo,"  _ Morgan whined slightly. "Peter told me that  _ babbo _ also means stupid." She grinned, pulling away from her dad. "And I won't tell you which once I meant." 

The boys high fived each other and then Morgan. They both held a hand up for their dad, but he hung his head in defeat. "Just right on my grave "Here Lies  _ Babbo,  _ Defeated by Sharing His Linguistic Heritage With Untrustworthy  _ Prole." _ He snorted once, which gave way to a chuckle. When his kids joined in, it became a full belly laugh. 

They lazed through the rest of the morning, happy to be celebrating such a kind man. 


End file.
